


Mission Square

by angelfeast (miscellanium)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Author's Favorite, Community: sassy_minibang, Consent Issues, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Power Dynamics, Soulless Sam Winchester, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscellanium/pseuds/angelfeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Set during the gap year after s5, with requisite spoilers for s6.)</p><p>After accidentally bringing Sam back without his soul Castiel keeps an eye on him, checking in on him as he travels the American northwest. But when Sam decides to hunt Crowley, the tenuous alliance between the king of Hell and the angel begins to fray and Castiel is left with fewer and fewer choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mission Square

**Author's Note:**

> The "past relationship(s)" is in reference to the Castiel/Dean.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Elements of voyeurism, blood and impact play; brief torture of a demon; problematic consent due to Jimmy's presence.  
>  **See end note for fic-spoilery warnings.**  
>  **A/N:** For angels I use the gender-neutral pronoun _ou_. Thanks to the lovely morgana-hallow for her beta skills, princess-aleera for cheerleading at a crucial moment, dear zempasuchil for her [amazing watercolor illustrations](http://zempasuchil.livejournal.com/297524.html), and the sassy-minibang mods for doing such a great job running this challenge.

  
**MISSION SQUARE**  


Lord, I'm tired of this shit, Sam says, his grin as bloody as the knife in his hands. He sets it down on the bedside table and uses Castiel's coat to wipe himself clean, dragging the fabric across his body in time with the drops from point to floor.

You're the one who asked me to come.

There's the sound of running water from behind the bathroom door, the handle for cold squeaking as it turns. The first time, Sam calls out. That was a while ago.

\--

It was dark in Heaven but back on Earth, his nose bloodied, Jimmy opened his eyes and realized he could see. The light from the street made Dean's backyard look flat and glossy, an advertisement in a magazine for new living. Dean's backyard—those words alone brought down a chill, the press of Castiel telling him to stop. It was not a suggestion borne of concern or even distraction, and the selfish force behind the angel's words (a current newly awakened, a ground lost) caught in the filaments of Jimmy's attention.

Why am I awake?

Castiel didn't answer.

-

There was no answer, no explanation, when Castiel went to Hell and took Jimmy with ou, walking the narrow hallways of the damned. And in Heaven Jimmy could not see—not his time yet, he was told, and his living soul would interfere with the others already there, drag down the move between spheres. What a thing to hear before it all goes black again for who knows how long this time.

Again he woke up in Dean's backyard. The wide-open fields and flat white two-story houses in the tucked-away space Castiel had partitioned off (a safe place, the angel said at the time, and Jimmy told ou that the word ou was looking for was lockbox) had been replaced by a low-lying gray, a ground fog that _breathed_ , was made up of _things_ , thousands of sharp crawling crying things.

Again Jimmy asked, Why?

To serve a purpose. Because you have work to do.

That's what you said before and look where it got us, Jimmy responded.

A pause, like a sigh, and Castiel's voice rang out again across the dying plains of his mind: I need your energy, the pure strength of your soul. There's a great task before us, and there was a pleading in Castiel's voice too close to desperation.

Not far behind was the weight of Castiel's gears, rolling over him as they rolled over the world, and: It's a little late for purity, isn't it?

-

It hadn't taken long to find him. This new Sam, ruthless and too efficient, was not Sam, leaving behind a furious trail of other people's grief. Dean would be devastated, and so Castiel did not tell him.

Which led to nights of standing in the center of the room, watching Sam lie in bed with lights out and eyes open. Sam's human eyes couldn't see ou but sometimes there was a prickling along Jimmy's neck, like he still had flesh of his own, and he could swear that Sam was looking at him, at the both of them.

That's impossible, said Castiel.

And Jimmy would try to laugh because the man was already walking around with his soul, come on. But he never said it and Castiel never listened, shoulders pulled slightly forward and off center like a broken compass.

Sometimes, if the day had been long enough, Jimmy could feel his eyes start moving, the angel hot behind them, following Sam's arm down across the pillow and dipping into the cleft of his axilla. Or hovering over that tender place behind the jaw, where the skin is soft despite the life led and the muscle is raised for the touching. The sternomastoid, Castiel told Jimmy casually, and gave him a memory of red meat over bone, a mouth open but not speaking.

-

A month, maybe two, of being watched—feeling that you are being watched but not knowing why, not being able to find a person—can do things to the mind. Lucky for Sam, then, that he couldn't find it in himself to care. Dean had moved on without him. But he should still be deep underground, caged with two divine examples of love and wrath with nothing else to do but tear him apart. Bobby had fewer and fewer answers these days, which narrowed the field somewhat.

Dear Castiel, where the fuck are you? Sam prayed silently, with hands clasped across the back of the woman asleep on top of him.

Her name was Alice and the muscles of her shoulders moved when she dreamed, so Sam pressed down until they stopped. She had a brother, dark-haired and light-eyed like her, and it was his turn tomorrow night if nobody else showed up first.

-

Crowley put his hand on Castiel's chest, flesh of the palm against skin stretched over bone, against the old break from when Jimmy (aged ten) climbed too high. But borrowed bodies dulled the sensations, filtered through the thinning veneer of Jimmy's soul, and feeling was always a struggle.

Harder, Castiel said, eyes raised towards the wall behind the steel headboard and the plaster peeling off the old warehouse walls. When ou's gaze slipped, jerked down by a dragging heat, Crowley's eyes were there, bright raw holes set deep in the rotten faces of an ox, an eagle, and other animals too long decayed to identify—

I can't do this, Jimmy said, but Castiel did not look away. There was something lingering here, buried under centuries of putrefying neglect, and maybe, just maybe, if Castiel reached out, things could go back to the way they were.

Dean's...busy. I'd rather not draw him back in.

Then get Sammy to do it for you. Crowley's hand, curled tight around the base of his throat, didn't move.

I don't know if I can control him.

Really? I find him quite predictable, murmured Crowley, and the way Jimmy could feel the teeth of his smile made him think of Amelia, of course, as did the way Castiel pushed back.

-

Afterwards there was always the run to Hilo. The sea air, sour in Jimmy's mouth, burned their skin, traces of salt dusting the bruises the angel kept.

The first time they came here it had been bright, banyan trees deep green under the sun, and Castiel had wanted to use the sticking heat to focus but in their mind Sam kept just walking away. Now though, with that month grown over like everything else in Stull Cemetery, Castiel visited this banyan road to forget. But to forget would mean to fall (again) and become something approaching human (again) and so Castiel held Jimmy down, pressed inside and felt around for the holes that could show ou what it's like to lose a memory.

Claire's first day of sixth grade and the expression on her face when she got out of the car. The name of Amelia's column for their college newspaper. How long it took to clear the snow from their driveway after finally moving in. Through these spaces moved an angel, cold and clear and dragging an old darkness behind.

September was the slow opening of the Hawai'ian winter: the long days of rain that pulled branches and leaves close to the ground until they groaned from the weight of the water, glistening dark like blood not yet dried. The banyan trees thrived in the winter here, bark growing smooth and strong as rot broke down the edges of the rough signs for people mostly forgotten. Epiphyte roots spread through the mud, winding around the host to go deeper still. Castiel stood on the sidewalks laid long ago and beginning to crack under the long seasons of rain, on the concrete hybrid of chemical and stone.

So often two disparate things are combined, made to work together, and it's only by supporting each other that they don't fall apart, Castiel observed, and Jimmy almost managed to tell ou to shut up.

He couldn't look at it on his own, not with Castiel controlling his body still, but Jimmy knew that down the road somewhere was a columnar tree, base filling up with the heavy rain. That kind of thing didn't happen back home in Illinois; the climate wasn't right for it, or so he had been told.

Over it all Jimmy heard Castiel's wordless longing and said, Everything reminds you of them, Jesus Christ.

-

Calling Cas, Earth to Cas. Sam prayed, but his heart wasn't in it. Sam prayed but his soul wasn't in it, so the angels didn't hear.

Castiel, already standing there steps away, chose not to answer.

Why don't you go to him? It was the same, night after night, and Jimmy was starting to lose track. Without Sam and Dean, without those familial fuckups writ large, life had lost its landmarks.

Because I should not be interfering, Castiel said, yet grinding along Jimmy's bones was the urge, plucking and scratching like nervous fingers.

It's been almost a year.

Five months. Castiel's voice, the one the angel used inside ou's—Jimmy's, still Jimmy's—head, had lost its crackle over those days, that thunderous certainty. Oh, the charge of grace was still there, but after what he had seen Jimmy was no longer afraid of the Host and its glories. (Except for one thing: When he asked _Is Claire okay_ and all the angel said was _Yes_.)

In his bed Sam rolled over, sweating, and kicked the thin motel sheets to the floor. The bathroom was draped with blood and wet cotton, clothes soaking in the sink and hung to dry on the shower door, and from where Castiel stood the air smelled like a killing field.

-

I know you're there, Sam said into the dark. You're not as subtle as you think.

No wind in the room could have closed the bathroom door, left open just so. Under his pillow a knife, sharp enough to open flesh without hesitation, and over his head a blank space fit for banishing.

Two strides and Castiel grabbed his wrist, Jimmy's palm smearing blood across Sam's skin, leaving the sigil half-finished. It's only me, ou said, and Sam smiled at ou with cold eyes.

Has it been only you all the other times?

Castiel didn't answer. The knife still heavy in Sam's free hand, polished iron almost white in the moonlight, was much less sophisticated than any of Crowley's collection but looked just as effective. Ou pressed hard fingers into Sam's wrist, feeling the flesh knit itself back together before letting go.

Your healing touch could use some work, said Sam. Doesn't do much good to bruise what you're trying to fix, does it, unless this is some kind of transference thing? The quirk of his lips suggested a humor dark and hard to see in these early hours of the morning.

Transference, Castiel repeated blankly, as Sam touched ou's neck with the knife. There was no press to cut, no numbing sting of the blade, but a thin line of red was drawn down Castiel's neck—Sam's blood, and Jimmy wanted to shudder at the warmth of it.

Thought you always healed right up. What's all this?

Another round with Crowley, another fading ring of yellow, green, brown, purple sunken into the hollow of Jimmy's throat. Castiel never bothered with pulling up the shirt collar, undone first by the awful stretch of angel flight and then by hands that burned with a subterranean heat. These human concerns were beyond ou; the brothers and their love, the survival of the world they had shown ou—this was what mattered.

Sam was standing up now, grinning lazily as he wiped the drying blood of his wrist onto Castiel's shoulder, the stain on the tan fabric almost black in this light. He took Castiel's hand, palm up, and dragged it across his chest, covering his protection tattoo with his own blood.

I'm thinking you've learned a few things, Cas.

Sam's hands were heavy now on Castiel's shoulders, the whorls of his thumbprints pressing into old bruises and breaking new veins, and Jimmy could no longer control his sick choking laughter as the angel let ouself be pushed down again.

\--

Another month, another pattern. Castiel spends every night now in motel rooms across the United States, never sleeping. Nudged towards his grandfather, the old man lifted up by Crowley and eager for an army, Sam no longer needs watching—but he still needs controlling, and Castiel will never admit it but Crowley has taught ou well.

So what brings you here in the middle of the day? Sam asks, wiping his belly dry with the ratty motel towel. It's thin and doesn't hold much water, the white cotton stained various shades of yellow, burgundy, and other colors long faded. The motley hues match the swollen pouch of skin under Castiel's left eye. ( _Mine_ , insists Jimmy, but of course nobody listens.) Sam runs his fingers over the reddened knuckles of his right hand, but as he reaches out the bruising disappears from Castiel's face, blue irises thin around pupils blown wide in the dull cheap lamplight.

Well, that's no fair. Sam's smirking at him, fingertips pressing against Castiel's cheek, against the bone prominent under Jimmy's skin. Whose marks are you keeping, then?

I'm here because I heard you were hunting Crowley. Castiel blinks, and ou's coat is clean once more.

 _Here_ is Sundance, Wyoming, near the Devil's Tower and about 600 miles east of the Idaho border. The November air outside is cold, bitter with fresh winds from the northern plains of Montana and the country beyond. Even after all this time, living with the linearity of Earth still takes some adjustment; Castiel has to choose not to look, now, but that doesn't stop glimpses getting through. Ou'll be here again, in words at least.

That's because none of you fucking learn from your mistakes, Jimmy says, and Castiel closes the door to his false Illinois.

Sam shrugs, and as he bends down to pick up his jeans Castiel's gaze follows the line of his legs, the dip of his knees and the flesh of his inner thigh. The fine hairs there lead a damp trail up to Sam's soft cock, hanging heavy against bruises of his own.

I just want information. If he's outlived his usefulness, then I'll hunt him.

Castiel brings ou's eyes back up, a faint frown creasing ou's forehead. What kind of information?

And this is today's reminder that this thing isn't Sam, not really, because instead of opening up he looks at Castiel with suspicion, calculation, and none of the trust that comes with hoping to be saved. Would you be able to help me find him?

Of course, Castiel says. I am still an angel.

-

Thanks for the help, _angel_ , and in Crowley's mouth the word is an insult.

The air in the warehouse tonight is stagnant and cold, dragging at the exposed skin of Jimmy's body. They are not naked but Crowley has many eyes, all watching the slow pulse of blood through the veins in their wrists, and Castiel can feel the gaze searching for the raw edges of ou's grace.

What else could I have said?

Castiel has taken off ou's coat, left it across the room, and with ou's back to the wall is in no position to put it back on. Ou's bare feet, shoes removed out of some old habit before entering into this concrete den, are bleeding; there is glass on the floor, but ou does not need to feel it.

You've still got a lot to learn, haven't you, mate? Come on, get a taste of the real world, Crowley says, smirking as he thumbs at his belt buckle. Or did you get that already from Dean?

You are disgusting, Castiel spits out, and Crowley just leans in, dragging his mouth along Castiel's neck as he laughs and laughs.

\--

In an old Toyota Hilux, engine chugging its way out of the 1970s onto the empty 2 a.m. highway, Sam follows the Campbell van. The moon hangs almost full in the Montana sky, washing out the truck's peeling blue paint and hinting at the metal beneath. He's had his eye on a nicer ride for a while now, maybe one of those black Dodge Chargers, but Samuel Campbell keeps voting him down on the grounds that the sleek car is too _fancy_ and he hasn't earned it yet. So, this rattling death trap is what's going to carry him to the Columbian Plateau and beyond—if he even makes it that far.

Up ahead it looks like the Campbells have pulled over, emergency lights blinking slowly, so Sam shifts the gears down and lets his truck drift up alongside the guardrail with a few long yards between them. Just a bathroom break, it turns out. Might as well go ahead and take care of yourself too if you need it, Christian shouts down the road.

Sam hops over the rail, picking his way along the fields and fences to the water ahead. The Yellowstone River looks deep in the moonlight, stretching through Sweet Grass County in a path almost unchanged from the days of Sacajawea, but the history of this land holds little interest for what Sam is these days. There's a wide blackness that spreads across the sky, rising up from the horizon to block out the Milky Way; some range of the Rocky Mountains, coming down from Canada. Sam pulls the high collar of his winter coat tighter, tugging at the zipper to reassure himself. Then—

Castiel touches two fingers to Sam's temple. That should help, ou says, and Sam peels himself out of the coat to feel the night air crisp on his skin but with no bite.

The first thing out of Sam's mouth is not a greeting but rather, How did you find me? All the other times, too? Don't I still have that crap on my ribs?

Castiel shrugs, stiff and unpracticed. Dean told me once about your Global Positioning System; the energy it generates is...ugly, but the other angels don't know they can also look for it. Yet, ou adds, and Sam shoots ou a look.

But Castiel is walking now towards the river, face unreadable in the dark. Sam follows, shaking his head, boots crunching over drying grass where the angel's borrowed shoes have gone without hesitation, without slipping. When they reach the shore, Sam can hear a faint shouting—Christian, probably, and then there's the rumble of an engine. But he knows where he's going, so it doesn't matter.

You should be able to tolerate the water as well, says Castiel, and Sam tries the water with his hand before unlacing his boots. They fall with a thump against the wet stones, loose and empty.

As Sam climbs out to sit on a rock and drag his feet through a thin, floating patch of ice, Jimmy laughs, quiet and sick. God, how sad is it that I'm jealous of a pair of fucking shoes?

So, being a vessel—felt better than I thought it would, Sam's saying, and his voice without his soul is no longer green, that bright hard sound, but a cold soft brown and Castiel doesn't want to think about how this one is easier.

Ou looks at the water instead, at Sam's feet waving pale and drowned beneath the surface. You were made for it. Jimmy just happened to be suitable, ou says, and in ou's head ou can feel the same old anger.

Sam says, I wasn't talking to you. His smile is slow and easy and full of teeth. He can hear me, can't he?

Yes, says Jimmy, but Castiel doesn't open his mouth.

\--

It's a gentle hate, the sort that comes from not caring, yet with this much Castiel is content. It's the other emotions like anger, disappointment, and ones more iridescent in the overlay of ou's vision, that Castiel is almost thankful were left behind with Dean. This is simpler, more like the old times.

And since when has that been a good thing, comes Jimmy's comment, which Castiel ignores. Ou's hands are busy with the fine tools of creation, shoals of black sand rising into the air under ou's fingertips. Ou's working with the sun's light, waiting for the midday rays that are best for new bones, yet none of the children around seem to care about the man making a skeleton in the middle of Richardson Beach.

Castiel stands, the hem of Jimmy's trench coat heavy with water, and rechecks the shield over ou's grace, reinforces the wards buried among the mangrove roots. Construction is a delicate process, and it does not do to be interrupted or rushed. Dean is marked with an apocalyptic urgency, a patch of Castiel's own grace wedged into the acromioclavicular joint to try and fill the gaps. Sam's body was made with care, a gift for Dean, but this mistake of the soul—

In turning against ou's family there had been a lesson, of course, in nuance of thought and action. But knowing a thing is different than doing it, and as Castiel kneels down again to roll grains of sand between his fingertips, trying to feel for the line between dedication and love, Jimmy scoffs: I could have told you that.

Across the water is part of Hilo and Mauna Kea behind it, the volcano jutting distant and grey through the clouds. The breeze is warm and gently humid, saltier here than among the banyans, and today there are no cuts or bruises.

Air's cleaner than the last time I was here. Then again, last time I was here it was all paperwork and bayonets, all dicking around indoors, so who knows? says Crowley, and Castiel turns around just in time to see his lips twist.

Castiel glares at him. The wards—

Don't do you much good when I can smell this place all over you. God, it's like you're wearing candy and rainbows. Makes me sick.

Turning away, Castiel watches the children running through the breaking waves and says, You will have to die.

As if! Our terms— Crowley sputters, backing away down the beach, stopping only when Castiel picks up the skull at ou's feet and tosses it over. Its jaw is still hanging loose on one side, some vertebrae dangling unconnected to the sternum and half-finished rib cage sticking out of the black sands.

Sam Winchester is hunting you, and he will find you.

Crowley chuckles, humor long leached away. Yeah, and I'll be ready. You have such faith in your boys, and the sneer in Crowley's voice makes it tempting, so tempting, to crush the tibula deep underfoot, feel that thin weak snap. But—

That's right, you still think you're the better one, Jimmy says, and Castiel refrains.

You'll thank me one day, ou says instead, gesturing at the bones, eyes hard on Crowley and voice rough with sea air.

Crowley frowns. How about you just let me go ahead and take care of it?

No, says Castiel. I've got it under control.

-

There is a taint upon Hilo. Jimmy tells the angel to not be so fucking dramatic about it, but as soon as Castiel finishes building the bones ou leaves, searching for better ground.

Even in this flesh reconstructed by God Castiel is no more comfortable than before; ou's fingers are still coarse, awkward things, capped with nails that can't even tear. Jimmy's tight skin burns with feeling, threatening to muffle the cold thrum of ou's grace. But now there's a certain flexibility, ou finds, new dimensions to be tested. A step, readying for flight, and their body _expands_ —

Ou touches down in Colombia, south of the Sierra de la Macarena. It is still warm here, even as the colors are starting to fade. The water at ou's feet has carved the stone into smooth vertebrae curves, the river full of pockmarks when viewed from above. The algae are a confusing array of colors, so limited through these human eyes ou wears when the angel is used to seeing so much more. Ou pushes, strains, then there's a _click_ and there, there are the colors ou can name, joining with the water to crash over Jimmy's screams.

\--

Idaho, on human maps, is a lifeless thing. A long, flat expanse, dotted with names that carry little weight. Castiel prefers to go from mountain to mountain, from peak to butte, and feel the granite foundations give way to snow under ou's feet. Yet there's no getting away from humanity, the roads slicing through the land, and Castiel is thankful for the reminder of why ou fights.

Sam is still driving, on his way to the northwestern border, so in the national forests of Boise Castiel stops to watch a herd of elk cross beneath Highway 21. With hides a rich brown that doesn't quite fade into the dirt and concrete around them, antlers a long sharp crown weighing their heads down, and tendons cracking like bone as they walk, they flow over the land easy as the hand of God.

Yeah, because the hand of God is so gentle, Jimmy says bitterly. Somewhere, near enough to echo over the rolling static of traffic, there are three gunshots. It's hunting season.

The elk don't scatter, just keep clicking their way under the overpass and along the winding path on the other side. One old bull stops, graying head raised and nose pointed into the rising wind, and up on the hill Castiel puts ou's hands into the coat's pockets and turns away.

-

It's early December now. Sam's been in Priest River, Idaho a week or so, checking out a possible high-level possession in Oldtown just six miles away, and today he's getting ready to head out.

The drive won't even take ten minutes, Sam says, standing at the door and rattling the keys in his hand. What are you sticking around for?

On the wall over Sam's head there is the head of a young elk, mounted flush against the wallpaper as though it were just passing through. But its large glass eyes don't blink, its ears don't move, and the raw tips of its antlers scrape against the exposed rafters. It all seems a little too on the nose, this thing and its artificial life, thinks Castiel as ou looks in Sam's eyes and sees nothing there.

I thought you could use some help.

Sam chuckles. I think I know how to do an exorcism, thanks.

Castiel shifts on the bed. Ou doesn't sigh; that's a sign of human emotion, weakness, and it wouldn't do to show any of that in front of this thing. I doubt you've encountered a demon like this before, ou says. And I can't let you trap it, but ou doesn't say that part.

The papers said a man, 50 years old and bankrupt, had gone missing right before elk-hunting season, his pick-up truck found lying on its side deep in Priest Lake State Forest. What had caught Sam's attention (and, privately, Castiel's) was the fact that the man had suddenly resurfaced after the search was called off, with people swearing up and down that they'd spotted him back at his home in Oldtown.

But his family hadn't seen him.

Then reports started coming in through the hunter network—roadside bars, gas stations, Campbell's old CB radio—that other people were going missing from the same place, young and old both, and nobody in Oldtown was talking now.

Nothing matched up with the lunar cycle, and there had been no bloody murders, no signs of ritual; the only thing, went Sam's reasoning, that could be this clean was a demon. Or a human, but let's see how it goes, he said as he stripped his gun and reassembled it without looking, the metal hard against his fingers.

Those same fingers are tapping against the doorframe today, knocking off short dark hairs from the white paint with each strike. The elk's hide is wearing thin, shedding the bulk of its life onto the carpet below, but Sam doesn't care—he just wants to leave.

Castiel gets to ou's feet, Jimmy's best shirt pulling tight and rough across the chest of this small, uncomfortable body as it unfolds—

You _asked_ to be in here, so you can fucking shut it, Jimmy snaps, and Castiel's answer is a swell of grace, redefining their body from the inside out and slamming Jimmy under.

Ou reappears in the parking lot. But Sam's already pulling away, grey exhaust tinged blue gasping out from the truck as he shifts into a higher gear, and Castiel watches him go as the acrid smoke settles around ou's feet, the smell sinking into the threads of Jimmy's trousers.

-

Castiel looked from Crowley to the new man alongside him. The two made a grim pair, pasty white skin buttoned up in black suits and black overcoats. All that one needs, Jimmy said as he snorted and indicated the taller demon, is a pair of Ray-Bans and you could stick him in the Oval Office. Am I supposed to be intimidated? Jesus, he looks like he's straight out of central casting.

This is Nergal, chief of secret police. Since I rearranged Hell she's been chief of a few other things, if you get my drift, said Crowley, oblivious to her glare, with his hands in his pockets and grin all teeth.

You can't be serious. Castiel peered through the vessel, through the rural librarian plucked from a house with three kids, and saw her face. This is a hunter, an assassin. You don't seriously think you can—

Oh, but I do, snarled Crowley, stepping forward with the force of it. You honestly expect me to just hang around with my thumb up my arse? I told you I'd be ready—

I will not let you kill him.

A dull thud—the steel frame of the hospital bed bowed under Crowley's fist, the stained sheets muffling the striking sound. The tools there rattled, rows of old iron and flaking blood, and Crowley, his gloves set aside, let them fall. One, a heretic's fork folding in on itself like a snakebite, curled up against Crowley's shoe. The leather began to smoke, smell of burnt meat sharpening the air, and he jerked away.

All right, look. He held up his hands. Let's not do this now. Okay, sweetie? The endearment slid out of his borrowed mouth, instinctive like it sat well with the body—That's right, he's wearing somebody too, Jimmy said, and he almost sounded surprised. Do you think that guy's still in there like I am?

-

Castiel goes ahead, finding the entrance to Oldtown by feeling for its borders, circumscribed by the weight of human emotions, the history of them compressed into the soil at the edge of town. The peeling sign along Route 2 welcomes visitors to this dying place, and it is here, not far from the shores of the Pend Oreille, where Castiel waits.

The long bridge stretches heavy over the river, the beams of it sunken through the current and deep into the bed below, and Castiel doesn't need the water to be quiet to hear Sam's truck rattling through the factory farms down the road. Ou stands there, not quite visible, not quite blinking as the truck speeds by, dust cloud rolling up behind.

There's no motel in Oldtown so Sam just pulls into the first gas station he sees, gets out and slams the door. He should pop the hood, wrap his fingers around the coils of the engine and pull, but as long as the truck runs healthy enough he'll leave it be. It works, is what matters, and he has better ways to spend his time.

Might as well go ahead and fill up on gas while he's here, Sam figures, and the station's glass-paned door dings as he walks in, his footsteps crisp and careful. He's not holding a gun but one look at the span of his chest, his shoulders no longer curled in but broad and straight, like a realization of rough adulthood, and the woman behind the register goes for the emergency signal.

Easy there, Sam says, holding up his hands. Just want some gas—his eyes flick to the certificate of ownership—Shanice. He smiles, almost soft, and Shanice backs away.

The transaction goes well enough, Shanice somewhat soothed by the familiarity of worn dollar bills in her hand, and it doesn't take much more to get her talking.

-

Sam comes back out to an angel leaning against his truck, rusty metal creaking under its weight.

What have you found?

Nothing I didn't already know, Sam says with a shrug. Except talk of the town has everyone being pretty sure he went off in the woods to kill himself. You guys seen his soul around?

Castiel meets his stare. I haven't seen it.

After a pause Sam says, with a level voice, Didn't think so, and reaches around him through the open window. There's a click, the glove compartment falls open with a dull sound, then Sam's pulling out a gun. He slides it into the back of his jeans with a practiced ease, the cold hardness of it warming against his skin.

I'm going to take a look around. He stands a little straighter now, the barrel of his gun resting heavy between his—

Jesus, Cas! Jimmy kicks out, the sensation of it a faint puncturing of grace that is quickly, instinctively patched over. Castiel pauses, reaches down ou's many hands and gives Jimmy cover, covers him and it's like Jimmy was never there at all.

Like the old days.

-

Before long the asphalt of LeClerc Road turns into dirt, grooves and stones slipping under the wheels as Sam heads back across the river, back up through tilled fields cut square by old woods.

Castiel's sitting in the bed of the truck, watching and letting ouself be swayed by the uneven ground, because the sky rolls away the same from every vehicle that ou has been in and there is only one that ou cares to remember. The road is a long sweeping curve that cuts through the land, laying open the stone foundations beneath the years of dust and other people's lives, but they're only able to drive so far up Lee until an iron gate blocks the way.

The farm is another mile or so down the road, grain silo creaking in the wind. It's almost imperceptible under the plaintive calls of cattle in the fields, the rotting hay bales collapsing in on themselves—Castiel can hear more of this dissonant symphony of neglect than Sam, ou's grace throbbing in Jimmy's ears.

The cattle guard rings hollow under Sam's boots, the metal rungs juddering from the impact. Castiel follows, the weight of ou's steps a gentling force, and leaves a silence behind.

Their footsteps on the porch mark a path through the dust that is soon blown away by the same wind that met their arrival. Sam doesn't try the doorbell, hanging by red and yellow wires from the wood, or knock on the doorframe, at the place where the white paint's worn away by all the hands before his. The screen door's latch is already broken so Sam just goes for his gun and slips inside, shirt rucked up where he pulled the weapon out, and as Castiel steps over the threshold ou can feel Jimmy stirring.

Everything is clean of suspicion; the furniture has that lived-in look, old patterns wearing thin and stains creating new ones, but there's nothing to explain the anticipation of death prickling at Sam's fingertips. A clattering comes from the kitchen, a radio turns on with the voice of Johnny Cash—Sam raises his gun, moves quietly down the hall, towards the light—

Castiel's there already, hand on the shoulder of a tall man all dark hair and dark eyes and clothes that don't fit. He's harmless, Sam, the angel says as ou digs ou's fingers into the man's shoulders, into the shirt that belongs to the owner of this house, and Nergal grins. It's the truth, or close enough.

I'm Dave, he says, And I take it you're the cop I called. Gotta say, it'd make me mighty more comfortable if you put that down.

But Sam doesn't lower his gun. Can't hurt for me to have a look around, since you called me here and all. He takes a step, metal shining in the yellow lamplight, and Castiel drops ou's hand from the demon's shoulder.

Come on, son, this isn't Law and Order. Dave backs away, hands up, and Castiel can see the calculations running across Nergal's face. I just came back from a long trip and saw my doorbell all busted, my door broken to hell, and figured I better get somebody up here. It's great you came sooner than they said you would, but maybe I should just call the office again—

Sam lowers his gun. But his finger stays near the trigger, curved and ready, and when Dave lets his hands drop Sam fires. The bullet, blessed iron, punctures the skin with a wet thudding sound—Dave stares first at Sam, then at his leg, the smoke rising from the wound, before sliding to the floor.

I knew you were hiding something. Sam leans in, close enough that Castiel's coat brushes against his cheek, and smells the blood. Sulfur. He presses the gun to unbroken flesh, just above the sizzling hole, and says, See, I'm not a cop.

No fucking shit, Nergal spits, eyes glistening black, but Sam keeps talking like the demon never spoke.

Dave Stueben was the first to disappear. You really didn't think I'd catch that? Sam pulls the gun back, cracks it across the vessel's nose. For a fifty-year-old man you don't bleed very much, says Sam, and he sounds almost disappointed. Nergal's face twists beneath the mask she wears, turning away from the flat intensity of Castiel's gaze.

Maybe I wanted you to catch me, is the demon's answer, and Castiel steps back. But ou cannot leave; there is nothing to do but watch as Sam shoves the gun back into his pants, pulls a jagged knife from one of his many pockets.

Tough luck, then. I'm better than I've ever been.

You don't have to tell me. All of hell knows about your soul, Nergal says, Dave's face contorting into a rictus of amusement and pain. The screams are that loud, she says with a lick of the lips. How does it feel, knowing that?

Honestly? I don't give a shit. Sam slams the knife between the demon's ribs. Where's Crowley?

Nergal's eyes roll, land on Castiel. Wouldn't you like to—the word collapses in a coughing spray of blood. Quick behind it is a plume of smoke, but Castiel places ou's hand over her mouth, shoves her soul back in. Palm resting cool and heavy against her (Dave's) face, ou says, There is no getting out.

Where is Crowley? Sam twists the knife, and Castiel lets go.

Washington state, comes the ragged gasp. Spokane. Or Wenatchee.

Where?

Nergal laughs, wet and bubbling. I don't know. But Castiel can see her true face moving a few steps ahead of the vessel, ready to say _Ask the angel_ , so ou presses ou's hand back down and burns. Her soul is quick to go from smoke to steam, rising through blackened bone, and Dave's cooked flesh sticks to Castiel's fingers.

The demon had nothing left to tell us.

Uh huh. Sam slides his knife out, lets the body fall back. Is it telling the truth? About Washington?

Castiel spreads ou's hands. I'm not psychic.

Sam runs a hand over his face, smearing the blood spattered there, and gets to his feet, heading to the sink. Campbell says he woke up there, and the only things I know of that can bring somebody back like that are demons. Or angels, Sam adds, as Castiel lifts the body off the floor, beige tiles stained almost black.

That's right, it's your turn to clean up, isn't it?

-

The tape deck is broken, a cassette stuck in there from a previous owner, and when Sam turns on the radio it's the same station as inside the house, only now instead of a train to San Anton Johnny's singing about your own personal Jesus. Get in, Sam says, not quite an invitation, and Castiel does, the leather seat creaking under ou's weight, Sam's hand hot against ou's cheek and smelling of steel.

Sam rolls his shoulders, the motion pressing his fingertips harder into the joint of Jimmy's jaw, as he murmurs something about the thrill of the hunt. For a moment his grin looks like his brother's, like Dean's after a long day of sweat and blood, but that's not why Castiel leans into his touch.

A palm dragging up ou's thighs, warm human breath damp on ou's neck, the radio crackling—ou's been here before, but that's not why ou stays.

C'mon, Cas, mutters Sam, and Castiel is graceful, of course, where nobody else would be, as ou slides over into the driver's seat and straddles Sam with as much fluidity as this limited form will allow. Jimmy's joints creak, ou's right foot is wedged somewhere under the seat, the steering wheel's pressing into the small of ou's back, but Castiel doesn't care about any of this. Ou focuses instead on making Sam's breath stutter, on the shallow rise and fall of lungs under ou's hands spread wide over ribs heavy with sigils, on Sam holding ou's hips down.

\--

This isn't what I signed up for, Jimmy said. Castiel, pressing his lips to Dean's bruised cheekbone, had no choice but to listen. The angel's grace was wearing thin, as was Jimmy's patience.

You said yes.

Not to this, muttered Jimmy. Using my body to beat him up is one thing. He's been asking for it for a long time, if you ask me. But to—

You said yes. The chain-link fence cut cold into Dean's back, his skin was clammy with sweat, and Castiel's touch slowed his heart, traced surrender into his blood.

I'm married.

You gave your body over wholly, said Castiel, pressing the ball of ou's palm against Dean's collarbone. Twice now I have asked, and twice now you have opened yourself up to me. Even now, months after being cut off from the host, the angel's words carried the same thrumming power that shook Jimmy the night of their first meeting, dropped him to his knees.

Dean shifted beneath them, pinned to the grimy concrete by their weight across his hips. Castiel paused, ou's cool hands still splayed against Dean's thin t-shirt, fingertips grinding at the seams.

Jimmy. His name behind the angel's lips was a clicking, a gear the wrong size. This is for the love of all mankind. He thought of his wife, and was silent.

Open, Castiel said aloud, but Dean did not move. Open, ou repeated, pressing ou's thumbs into the joints of the man's jaw.

\--

Crowley's house in Mission Square, Wenatchee, is as unassuming as the rest of them. Shingled roof, vinyl siding, three steps up the porch. The shades are drawn in the middle of the day, but he brings money and employment to this dried-out place, and nobody asks questions.

One of these employees is standing in front of the door now, a young man with eyes demon black. Castiel doesn't bother with a greeting, just pushes past, letting the door slam shut and the _O Come All Ye Faithful_ plaque rattles behind ou.

The king of Hell is busy washing a large pot, yellow gloves up to his elbows and water foaming pink, when Castiel enters the basement.

Hello, angel. Crowley doesn't turn around. Did you see the new sign? Picked it out just for you.

Very cute, Castiel says shortly.

All business today, are we?

Your assassin is dead. Castiel allows ouself no pleasure in the way Crowley's grip tightens on the pot, rubber squeaking against metal. As I warned you would happen.

And I take it you did nothing—

Castiel's own hands squeeze tight, and ou's measured steps echo as ou comes up alongside Crowley. Don't presume—

Have you forgotten that we're partners?

With a sweep of ou's arms Castiel lunges, pulls Crowley away from the sink, and the pot drops to the floor with a rolling clang, spraying dirty water across the scuffed linoleum. It doesn't take much to slam Crowley through the drywall, hold him there.

I could destroy you in an instant.

Yes, you could, Crowley snaps, voice rising with each word. And you're not the only one, or have you forgotten why we started this little venture in the first place?!

The unspoken name rings like a summons, and Castiel lets go.

Crowley pulls away from the wall, dusts plaster off his shoulders, but before he can open his mouth for a finishing remark the angel's on him again, all sharp edges and teeth.

-

The air along South Grand Boulevard is sharp, the street quiet at noon, as though all of Spokane is hunkering down in anticipation of the new year.

Stop projecting, Jimmy mutters. This part of South Hill is just like that, he adds as they stop in front of the Cathedral of St John the Evangelist. Castiel frowns; the corroding meat of their mouth shifts, the muscles try to stretch, and now rising up their throat is sweet-sour bile. Castiel forces it back down, sends Jimmy a questioning touch even as ou experimentally tongues at the acid traces of Crowley's blood, the neck-flesh between ou's teeth—

Fuck, Cas, why won't you fix this?

Castiel turns his head to look along the nave, the simple clerestory, the roof green in the light. After another moment, another taste of cold December air, the angel sets about threading back together what ou can—the rugae, under the palatine bone, but Jimmy spreads along his trigeminal nerve, shakes their head.

Just put me back to sleep. It's not like you can't now. New and improved, right? Put me back.

You are, Castiel pauses, raises ou's eyes to the spires of the bell tower. A comfort.

In the silence that follows Castiel steps onto the snow-covered lawn, approaches the bare trees and tall pines lining the apse and shielding it from the road. It's not snowing now and ou's footsteps lie clear on the ground, but the clouds low on the horizon are a promise.

Then: Are you fucking serious, Jimmy's yelling, what the fuck is wrong with you, and Castiel closes ou's eyes and lets the sound of it call ou back to motel rooms, old cars, unanswered prayers.

If this has something to do with Dean—

Castiel pulls at one of the anchors of ou's grace, sunken deep in their hippocampus, and for a moment Jimmy cannot speak, hit with the weight of forgetting. Yet this is not a punishment but a reflex, a nervous twitch, and this is how it always goes.

By the time Jimmy has his words again the setting's changed, just like that, miles crossed without a breath. In the winter this arboretum stays open but the people stop coming, and for the angel the trees bent with ice are close enough to home. The snow is up to mid-calf here and Castiel lets one trouser leg get wet, then the other. Scraping behind the trees are plows with chains on their tires, tearing up the quiet of I-90 acres away.

I am trying, says Castiel, patience fading, To stop the apocalypse. Again. Ou walks across the rolling field, pushing through the snow that drags at ou's feet. Forgive me for seeking refuge where I can.

Seeking _refuge_? The words spatter out, birdshot gone wide. By using me as a—

You returned to me for the sake of your daughter.

That, that's not, Jimmy sputters, but the angel's withdrawn, the conversation's over.

\--

It takes another week of walking Spokane's streets to find Crowley's second hideout, warded almost beyond recognition and buried deep in the basement of an old convent in Mission Square. But where Wenatchee's neighborhood is quiet to the point of stereotype and decay, this version is all cobblestones, tourist appeal, and gentrification. So it comes as no big surprise to Jimmy when the woman who answers Castiel's knock is short and slight, with a heavy camera looped around her neck.

Yes? What is it? She steps out, closing the door behind her, red hair bright under the grey sky.

Anna, starts Castiel, but the woman just stares at ou.

Charlie. Is this how you normally greet strangers? Give them random names?

I apologize. This—I am Jimmy. (Fuck you, he yelps.) You are...?

My name's Julie. So. She puts her hands on her hips, leans back against the door. What do you want?

I have come, Castiel says, then stops. Ou looks over the building, sees the history of it, the nuns washing their clothes. To pay my respects, ou continues. This was once a place of worship and I...find it interesting.

Wow, that was smooth, mutters Jimmy, bitterness welling hot and ugly. But Julie can't hear him, of course, and after a not unappreciative once-over she lets them in.

You're not the first history nerd to stop by. Just don't touch anything.

Castiel nods, gazing blankly at the walls and the photos drying there. Where is the basement?

What?

The basement.

With a chuckle, Julie closes the door. I've been renting this place for three years, buddy. If there was one I think I'd have found it by now.

But there is, the warding— Castiel smiles as ou cuts Jimmy off, turning to Julie and clasping her hand between ou's. You are in great danger. But I will do for you what I was unable to do for my sister.

Your sister? Julie laughs again, the uneasy sound echoing in the wide room, and pulls her hand away. Look, I think you better go.

Castiel presses ou's lips tight. As ou turns ou's head a weakness, a misspelling in the Enochian flares bright in his periphery, and that's all he needs here.

Get out, Julie says, voice raised, and Castiel leaves. (Be nice if I could do the same, Jimmy whispers, yet the words are loud with resignation gone sour, and the angel leaves the question untouched.)

-

You know this is bullshit, Sam said, but his grandfather sent him out anyway. So here he is, walking around Wenatchee for god knows how many days in subarctic temperatures, trying to find a guy who wrapped his car around a light pole and blamed it on a pterodactyl. The arresting officer's out of town, on vacation or some shit, and Sam can't blame her. This place is dead.

Prefab houses, most of which are just sitting empty, line the icy street. If it weren't for the cars in the driveways, the slushy tiretracks rolled out up and down the roads, you'd think there was nobody here. There's one place, a two-story set awkwardly in the middle of all these bungalows lifted direct from a 1950s advertisement, that's covered in Christmas lights. Just goes to show there's no getting away from this crap, and Sam has had enough of this.

He heads back to his truck, socks damp with melted snow and sticking to his feet with every step. Even just the brief moment of pulling off a glove to get the keys hurts, the sting of northern air reddening his knuckles, the metal door handle burning his fingers with the cold. Once the ignition's started Sam yanks his scarf up to cover his face, hooks it over his nose, and breathes with his mouth open. The damp warmth spreads across his cheeks in pulses, throbbing in time with the engine, and the radio's playing some song about showering people with fucking love or something but Sam can't be bothered to unfold himself enough to turn it off until the heat kicks in.

James Taylor goes staticky for a moment, the passenger side of the truck dips, and, great, Castiel's here.

Been a while since your last check-in, Cas, Sam huffs out, but Castiel doesn't bother looking over.

The angel keeps ou's eyes fixed on the lights of the tall house, flickering white green blue red. What are you doing?

Hunting pterodactyls, Sam says. There's a little crackle of sound that's either Castiel laughing or the engine sputtering.

They're extinct.

Yeah, I know. Sam curls deeper into himself; this time, instead of blocking out the cold it's as though Castiel brought it with ou, magnified it. God have something against Christmas lights?

God does not care, says Castiel, still watching the house.

The heat's working now, so Sam pulls his scarf down and off, lets the dark red fabric lie loose in his lap. So, what, I'm not good enough to hold your attention? His voice is light and sharp, like a knife weighed in the hand.

No.

Is Crowley here?

Now Castiel looks at him. Why would I know?

You could go find out.

Something in the angel's expression locks up, Jimmy's face smoothing out, as their eyes narrow and Castiel leans in, the space between them almost audibly thrumming with threat. Are you telling me what to do, _boy_?

Sam doesn't answer. The song is still going on about showing them the way that you feel but his gun is in the glove compartment. Easing off the brake and onto the clutch, he shifts into first and starts down the slippery road.

After a mile or two, Castiel leaves, the truck's suspension creaking in relief. Sam waits, half listening as a new track starts about a steamroller for your love, wanna roll all over you.

He turns back.

-

He will find you.

Crowley spins around, stained apron flaring. How'd you get in here?

Your Enochian is not as good as you think it is. Castiel stays in the middle of the room, takes in ou's surroundings. It's not that different from the basement in Wenatchee; the walls are lined with bone-white tile, there's a medical-grade bed covered in damp sheets and sticky tools, sopping towels hang over the sink's lip, and the floor is spotless save for the black marks of Crowley's soles.

I heard you upstairs before. Crowley takes off his apron and hangs it near the sink with tight, precise movements. Talking to, ah, what's her name.

Julie.

You know, I really don't know why I let her stay around. Crowley says this casually as he gathers up the bedsheets, shakes them out, and begins folding them into crisp edges.

Above them, the sound of a door closing. Castiel looks up. She has nothing to do with this.

You talked to her, didn't you? Crowley drops the sheets, a neat square of white and red, onto the thin pillow and stalks over. You gallivanted all over this city looking for me, and that leaves—Crowley's close enough now that his breath huffs out warm against Castiel's skin—A trail.

Sam Winchester—

Is a threat! Crowley shouts into Castiel's face, the gust of it shifting ou's shirt collar. And you know what we do with threats? We _deal with them_!

But Castiel just stares, expressionless, until Crowley drops back onto his heels. I'm dealing with him.

The fuck you are, snarls Crowley. Watching him track— His voice breaks off, his face goes blank. Wenatchee's been breached. Crowley surges into Castiel's space again, but now his voice is quiet and tight: You were saying?

Castiel says nothing for a long while, the heat of Crowley's vessel filling the narrow space between them. Crowley's true faces shift beneath the flesh, keratin of the eagle's beak peeling away over pus, and again Jimmy longs for the freedom to throw up.

There is something I could do, Castiel murmurs as ou flexes ou's hands, feels the tendons stretch and click, sends grace skittering along the whorls of ou's fingerpads. To put him off.

\--

Sam's GPS puts him in Spokane a few days later. But he stays in University District, the Campbells having got wind of a fraternity of vampires. There's about fifteen of them, coming and going during the middle of this season of overcast skies, and the campus they've settled on is alive with humans who didn't or couldn't go home. But there's no killing the vampires yet; Sam's to keep an eye on them, try and see if one of them will lead him to the head honcho, as his grandfather puts it, so he settles in as a grad student, living in an apartment along the river.

Even if they drink from blood banks rather than humans, the vampires recruit the regular way (night-time kidnappings) and have made conversion part of the fraternity rush—and from the sound of it, that's when their leader plans to show his face. Or hers, Sam supposes, but does it really matter once their neck's been cut through? Only problem is, rush has come and gone for the year. Campbell wants to hash out what to do until then—fine. Meanwhile, there's a nest ready for action, and considering they all go to the same bar it's not hard to start picking them off, one by one.

But he can only slaughter one a week—this is still a crowded campus, after all—so Castiel leaves him to it.

-

Castiel's borrowed heaven is closely watched now, great wheeled things pressing down on the edges of that Tuesday afternoon, forcing ou out and back to Earth. The Bay of Fundy is a poor replacement, New Brunswick far from the songs of the Host, but Rachel finds ou there, spreads the word, and the makeshift garrison gathers as the tide creeps back in.

You understand why we're doing this, Castiel says, the hems of Jimmy's trousers heavy with ocean water. Wood pilings slick with algae and mold rise high behind ou, a skiff lies empty on the naked rocks of the bay, and all the angels are silent.

Rachel steps forward, shoulders of ou's suit dusted salt-white. I have faith in you. The faces of Rachel and the others are bright and unwavering masks. Castiel no longer knows what ou's own look like; the many eyes turned toward him reflect nothing.

You angels are a sorry bunch, is Jimmy's inevitable remark, and Castiel has nothing to say to that.

Meeting after meeting, week after week: with luck, they listen, join up (however uncertain) or simply turn away. But at the mouth of Erta Ale, north of the Great Rift Valley with badlands stretching out beyond the lake of lava at their feet, Modiniel's blade flashes white in ou's palm and that's all the warning Castiel gets.

February in Africa is dry, the heat of the living earth almost too much for their vessels; Jimmy's shirt is translucent with sweat, the trench coat clinging dark on Castiel's back and under the arms. Modiniel's wearing a young woman and few layers, but ou too is sweat-slick and hard to pin down as they wrestle on the shores of the burning lake.

It's soon over, the final answer driven deep under Jimmy's ribcage, Modiniel vanishing as soon as ou pulls the sword back out. With damned souls mixed into the grace and cold blood slipping through ou's fingers, healing isn't as simple as it used to be.

\--

March in Spokane is still white, still wet, still cold. When it's not snowing, fresh layers of it thin on dirt-black roadside mountains of plowed ice, there's rain beating it all back down into a slush that seeps into the seams of Sam's boots.

The nest is gone—on a long trip to Costa Rica for trust-building exercises, is the story that goes around—and Sam's moved out of the apartment, away from the river and south of the city. Gwen's hunting a kingstie up near the border, Mark a shunka warakin in Montana, leaving Christian with their grandfather in a seedy motel in the heart of Spokane and Sam without a way to drop off the grid. He tried once, late in February when ice cracked against the river's shore. Christian found him, beat him, pulled him back in.

After each kill—muffled in the alley behind the kid's favorite bar or slow and quiet under a bridge with cars rolling over them—Sam threw his shirt and pants into the sink, changed into a suit and tie, and headed into the city while the blood lifted out of his clothes. The demon had mentioned this place as well as the other (now salted, torched beyond recognition) so why not do a canvass, search for the next big game to keep his hands busy?

For the past week Spokane's been shaken by wind, glass shivering in storefront windows like teeth waiting to fall. But today the air is dead, Sam's scarf lies loose around his neck, and snarling up the silence of the street is a familiar bass line pulsing loud through the walls of the building ahead. It's an old nunnery, near the end of Sam's inventory of potential hiding places, and when the door opens he's hit with Queen's pressure that burns a building down.

Sorry, sorry, says Julie, using the remote in her hand to shut off the music. Another local history buff? You've got a similar, I don't know, presence, she adds as Sam quirks an eyebrow.

Have you been getting many visitors, then?

A couple, yeah. Look, I gotta work. Julie smiles apologetically, gesturing at a red light down the hall. Feel free to wander around but touch any of my equipment and I'll end you.

Sam nods, looking around as he tugs off his scarf and shoves it in a pocket. Smaller than it looks from the outside, he says, and shrugs when Julie squints at him. Is the basement that way?

God, what is it with you people and basements? There's never _been_ one, she exclaims, ears pink. I really have to get back to work now—let yourself out when you're done. And with that she trots away, ducks into the darkroom and slams the door. The song restarts, the floor vibrating, but Sam pays it no mind; the memory called up by the words (Dean drumming on the steering wheel, singing loud over the wind, skin warm and fresh in the Texas sun) is old and useless.

Sam goes past the basement entrance twice before seeing it: a closet where there shouldn't be one. He reaches out, hand sinking through the folded towels into cold unseen air, and the closet fades, his arm embedded in the wall. He looks again, his fingertips going numb, and it becomes a stairwell leading down, concrete steps pearled with grime.

Phone out, eyes on the dark, he presses in his grandfather's number. Crowley's in there, no question. It's not a matter of backup but weaponry—

A rustle behind him—the phone crackles, threads of energy springing loose from the casing, battery sparking into his palm, each prick of power a singularity that turns hot, cold, or far out of the range of human understanding.

Wait.

I turned off the GPS, Sam says, not turning around.

Your phone...carried its own electronic signature. Castiel looks at the smoking plastic, the blistering skin of Sam's hand. It seems my focus was too much.

Yeah, whatever. Sam puts away the dead phone, soot smearing a path across denim from hip to pocket, but before he can duck through the doorway, lower his head, the angel's got him by the wrist. Fingernails pressing hard against the ridges of tendon and bone, Castiel starts to heal the damage done—yet Sam pulls away, flesh of his palm red and too new.

I don't need your help.

Pulling ou's eyebrows together, Castiel crumples up the space between them, repeating the familiar gesture of frustration written into Jimmy's body. I'm not _helping_ you, ou says, but Sam's already halfway down.

Castiel jumps ahead, to the white room, to where Sam's got Crowley up against one cracked wall with a gun to his neck. But it's an empty threat, the surety of salt no longer enough for the ruler of Hell, and Crowley's thin lips curl up even more when he sees Castiel, rotten bovine eyes settling on ou behind the meat.

Three's a crowd, luv.

Sam pushes the barrel of the gun deeper into Crowley's neck, steel flashing as it digs between folds of flesh. You're not funny.

I was talking to your angel pal over there, Crowley says, voice light, and despite himself Sam turns his head. Castiel opens ou's hands, explanation false and easy behind ou's lips—Like he's gonna listen to you now, says Jimmy, and Sam tenses, the trigger clicking.

But there is no soft thud, no spurt of headmeat against the wall. Crowley's vanished, bullet snapping into tile, leaving Sam blinking grout from his eyes and licking a question from his lips.

I will follow him, is Castiel's answer. Ou presses a cool palm to Sam's temple, and there's _light_ —

-

Water's shaking the ground, coming over the cliff heavy and hurried like something trying to get home, yet Castiel does not stumble. Sam throws out a hand, breaks his fall with raw skin, and suddenly every pebble, every roll of grit is there under his palm.

Ahead of them, standing at the edge where the stone has broken apart into columns, Crowley laughs. The sound of it is lost under the water—Just as well, Jimmy says, Because this is ridiculous.

Suit yourself, says Crowley, words weighted with an unnatural force that cuts through the thunder, presses down on their shoulders.

But Sam's up now, bottom of his shirt torn and wrapped around his hand, plaid fabric stretched tight over knuckles and tendons as he pulls the gun up again. Crowley's grinning, arms spread, black against the green river below.

Snake River. How appropriate of you, darling, he calls out, and this time Sam doesn't look away.

Sam, Castiel says, low and close behind him. There's a knife in his left boot, the wood handle there under the rise of his jeans. The gun is just a decoy—

The basalt, smooth and dark under Sam's feet, begins to roil, jerking him down in a quake impossible to ride out as the ground slides away and rises, fed with lava from the deep—

Castiel lifts Sam off the ground, hand tight around his throat, and carries him up the mountainside. Crowley follows, a few paces behind, the polish on his shoes gone under the smoke. When they've reached a higher point, the trees and river small below them, Castiel lets Sam drop, quiets the earth with a downward sweep of the fingers.

Very nice trick, that, Crowley says.

Castiel looks up from where ou's kneeling, from Sam's wide empty eyes. Be quiet. The words are a snarl.

Sam's breath judders out hard, his chest rising, falling and there's a hole there Castiel can fill, has to fill.

Ou curls Jimmy's fingers tight, fine hairs rubbing against fingerpads, and Sam's sternum bends, gives way so easily. Inside this body, this wet mass of flesh, ou's grace crackles along ribpoints and veins, cold electricity skittering over Sam's brain, hooking deep into the temporal lobe.

He's screaming, hoarse and jagged sounds, around the angel fist sunken into his chest, boiling his demon blood. Castiel squeezes, pulls ou's hand out and Sam's memories with it. Sam's body clings to ou's fingers, lungs pulsing warm and familiar, as grace stitches him closed.

You know what you have to do now, don't you, says Crowley, all lidded eyes and manipulative charm and this is the choice Castiel's been given.

That's not how it works, Jimmy says, but Castiel doesn't listen.

Ou's busy threading together a new history for this thing called Sam, excising ouself, painting over sleepless nights. While this fix is far from permanent the freedom it grants is enough for now; a touch to the forehead sends Sam farther afield and away from Dean in his backyard, raking leaves.

He'll understand.

**Author's Note:**

> spoilery warning: noncon soulfisting and memory erasure.
> 
> thanks for reading.


End file.
